


I loved You First

by petecastiglione



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:21:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petecastiglione/pseuds/petecastiglione
Summary: Steve will do anything to relearn his best friend's smile, the melody of his laughter, the boy he once knew.





	1. First Smile

**Author's Note:**

> started this awhile ago and figured i'd post it?? post-civil war but i guess it's a bit canon divergent. no cryo in wakanda, bucky still has his arm. I'll hopefully add more chapters, probably featuring more characters (sam!!)

Sixty Seven Years After Plane Crash (2012)

The Smithsonian returned Steve’s prior life in a minuscule box. Natasha bestowed it with a smile that tethered itself to pity. An unfitting expression on the redhead's hardened face. As though she was familiar with having your existence reduced to a commercial character and being reminded of yourself through past objects. He’d directed it towards a shelf in his apartment and confined it there, the closet door serving as a blockade between him and a montage of memories he’d wanted desperately to neglect. 

It took nearly a year for him to gather the strength to draw forth the littered sketchbooks and battered copies of classics. That night, empicapting the shackles of punching bags hadn’t sufficed in silencing torn recollections. The white noise of isolation had risen to an unbearable volume, deafening Steve with the reminder he was alone in the world. The lid was carried from the box, towards the floor, the contents eradicated Steve’s sense of composure. He dusted his fingers with graphite that had taken shape of Bucky, stacks of aged pages littered with the Brooklyn boy’s unfaltering grin.

The despair gathered within him remained static, a dull ache in the gap between stuttering lungs, until the glint of metal caught his baby blues. The beaded chain seemingly advanced towards him, catching his trembling fingers. Nearly seventy years of distraught and unaddressed attempts at dissociation dissipated with the stamp on the tag. 

‘Sergeant Barnes B. James, 32557038….’

Preceding the unearthing of his belongings Steve had denied his thoughts the chance to wander toward his most intimate moments shared with his best friend. His defense is devastated, Steve palms the tag, eyes slipping shut with the burden of remembrance. 

Steve is slight in stature, decimated with fever tremors, grounded by toned arms. He fears his lungs will fail him, pursuing the warmth radiating from his best friend’s form. 

Steve is adrift in the afterglow of their climax, his newly supple chest dusted lazily with the brunet’s lips. The tent encasing them flutters in prospect at the sound of distant gunfire. 

Steve is companionless, shrouded in the blame of not pursuing his fallen comrade, his Bucky. Dusk veils itself across the humming city, but for Steve, it’s been dark since he failed the only person who refused to neglect him. 

Seventy One Years After Plane Crash, Present Day (2016)

Bucky has smiled sparsely since Steve had regained him, toying heavily with that haunting footage of the Winter Soldier. The horror crept into his sleep, tugging away the remaining shred of humanity. He'd wake shrieking into the swallowing crevasse, dragging his nails across his shoulder in a deranged attempt to detach his token of Hydra. He wouldn't cease his mission until he drew scarlet, determined to allow his own serum to drain away. Steve would pry away the vehement fingers, pleading with the Winter Soldier. 

Steve couldn't halt his distended thoughts from detecting the nuance between those weak curl of lips and the glowing grin that had saturated the Brooklyn man's face. Their old apartment had lacked sufficient heat until Bucky ignited a blinding smile.

Steve coughs away the sheen of dust, the box greeting the floor with a dull thud. He tosses a calculated glance behind him towards the dimming hallway, surveying for an indication of upset from Bucky. The door doesn’t waver, serving as a barrier between them, accompany aching silence in the quest to drive the pair apart. He inhales the heavy, musty scent the ancient pages within carry. His fingers grasp blindly, retrieving the tag. 

He ponders his earlier silent proposition, fearful of the repercussions of his gesture. The tag holds an abundance of memories he hopes to evoke in Bucky. He folds his palm around the token of remembrance, offering the hallway a final glance before braving the threshold. He forces his shattered heart from his throat, swallowing to urge the shards back into the hollow of his chest. 

—

Light bleeds from the sky, dusk settling upon the city. In the streaks of tarnishing rays Bucky studies himself. His reflection is that of a stranger's, his blues vacant with the cruelty of winter. Overshadowing the malice is the sheer weariness, one only receives from repeated blows from life. It's nauseating, the sense of unfamiliarity he feels within his own body. He wants to rediscover the man Steve sees within him, but he's unsure where to even begin. Steve was so sure his true self still dwelled within him. 

He stands, moving from the mirror, hiding from the foreign man in the reflection. The bed gives slightly, accommodating his weight. He doesn't consider sleep, his eyelids are scarred with far too many horrors. Instead, he presses his anomalous metal palm against his face, trying to appease his wandering thoughts. Bucky would trade all his tomorrows for one yesterday with himself, the self Steve beamed at during Bucky's most agonizing nights. 

“Buck?” Steve voice floats like a mid afternoon vinyl, in the atmosphere of their former Brooklyn apartment hazy with euphoria. Steve’s voice is calling to Bucky in the present day, a soft inquisition. 

The captain aims his weight towards the door frame, mouth downturned in a minuscule frown. Steve takes a tentative step, provoked by his unwavering desire to protect the dark haired man. This devotion has carried Steve decades, and now across the room. They're stars, waiting to collide, the enviable black hole they're destined for. He awaits a nod of approval before seating himself beside Bucky. Even when his own identity was shrouded in seventy years of unyielding torture, there was a fraction of Bucky that understood a familiarity about Steve Rogers. Bucky trembles, as though a fictional chill has caught him, bringing a furrow to Steve's brow. Steve extends a tentative hand, fingers splayed. Bucky grants a minuscule nods, and Steve sweeps a stray strand behind Bucky's ear tenderly. The palm settles on Bucky’s thigh, exerting the gentlest of pressure and reassurance. 

“I have something for you.”

Bucky’s brow mirrors Steve’s, left eyebrow cocked in question. He’d only received a single gift the seventy years he was a casting of himself, and that gift was something he would never deserve, not even if he lived another ninety to repay the universe. That gift was sitting beside him, pale blue eyes surveying him warmly, hand clasping his leg in a gradual display of affection. 

“Hold out your hands, Buck.” 

There’s a gentle clink of metal greeting metal, Bucky casts his gaze downwards to his outstretched palms. It was a dog tag, only a single tag, strung on a necklace. Bucky pinches the sheet of metal between his flesh thumb and forefinger, rotating to read the inscription in the setting sun. 

“It’s mine.”

Steve directs his head upwards in confirmation. 

“The one I gave to you, after that night at the pub. We snuck away afterwards, you put it on before and wouldn’t take it off after.” 

The tag serves as jigsaw piece, settling within the lapses of recollection. 

The vague statement doesn’t indicate to Steve confirmation of Bucky’s knowledge of what that night had entailed. Bucky does remember the warmth of flesh adjoining, but decides against disclosing that. 

“That’s right, Buck.” Steve’s voice is drawn out, as though speaking around a lump gathering in his throat. His heart swells, threatening the vicinity of his lungs. 

"Said you were my best guy, wanted your tags to prove it.” Bucky counters Steve’s round blues, fond of that evening spent tucked away. Bucky had awoken to the glimmer of sunrise, pressed against Steve's bare warmth. 

Bucky recalls whimpering into Steve's neck, pleading that he'd still feel the ghost of Bucky's painted kisses even after they were replaced with Peggy's, he doesn’t share that either. 

“You remember?” Metal and tears glimmer in unison. 

“Best night of my life.” Bucky’s eyes glow with the whispering transition of winter to spring, a beam tugging his lips, “Still are my best guy.” 

Steve warms, so reminiscent of a shabby apartment in Brooklyn. A former accent dances around Bucky's words, and Steve's mouth aches with a grin. It’s the first genuine smiles Steve’s coaxed from Bucky since he's carried his torn remains from the crumbling rubble of the building. Bucky feels a beaming pride at his ability to reminisce, flesh palm enclosing around the token of remembrance. 

“I don’t have yours anymore.” A slight frown replaced his glimmer, his aura dimming.

“You don’t need it. I’m here.” 

“But i’m not.” Bucky announces dejectedly, his search for himself had gone awry in the two years he’d spent in solitude. 

“That’s why i’m giving it back. You have your tag and you have me. It doesn’t belong to anyone but you, you don’t belong to anyone but yourself.” 

The smile recaptures Bucky’s features, rounding his cheeks, his eyes casting a warmth for Steve. 

"Thanks Stevie." 

Steve adorns his counter with the tag, freeing the strands caught beneath the necklace. He threads his fingertips through the overgrown brunet, petting towards the projection of Bucky’s jaw. Steve hums into their following embrace,

“Still your best guy.”


	2. First Laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Modest.” Bucky nudges Steve’s leg amusingly, his smart remark is reminiscent of a Brooklyn boy and his witty insertions. That spark of the man Steve is vastly familiar with tugs his lips upwards, that man hasn’t entirely dissipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second chapter!! had this one already written so i figured i'd upload it with the first.
> 
> sorry if my romanian is shitty im learning!!

Two Weeks Later

For the larger part of a century Bucky was a chest piece, prostituted into bidding for a larger scope. He was handled as a weapon. He was comparative to a firearm, utilized, cleaned when necessary, returning to his place in the isolation of a cabinet. His adjustment to humane treatment was just a mere bit of the rubble. His third week, a barista had bid him a nice day, he spent the next expanse of time weeping, unacquainted with the subtlest of empathy. He detested the shudder of unaccustomed fervor that seized his body when Steve touched him, Steve withdrawing his hand immediately. He wanted so badly to be touched, to be greeted, to be spoken to without the motive of brutal instruction. Steve tried to provide, seemingly expecting to receive the boy he’d known growing up in compensation. 

Though, it occurs to him the he is no longer Bucky. He is, in a sense, and always would be. But he’s been tampered with and violated in such a way that couldn’t be undone. The collision of Bucky Barnes and The Winter Soldier is where he must venture to find himself. Their second month united, Steve begins to grasp the devastating reality of the lost man, and takes the first step in the direction of the wreckage.

“Will you teach me Romanian?” 

They’re watching a show Sam suggested, claiming it’s topical relevance. The antics of the employees at the paper company remind Bucky vaguely of The Avengers. It’s an easily digestible program, not overtly obscene or brimming with violence, providing no content that prompts Bucky into a spiral of panic. Bucky eases into a newfound comfort when settled beside Steve to watch it. 

Steve’s plea drives Bucky away from content and into the abyss of an inhospitable apartment in Bucharest. His journal the only remnants of a life he once knew. It’s a stark contrast to the perpetual euphoria of their shared loft. Bucky’s eyes divert themselves from the screen casting a dancing glow across the dim room. Bucky tugs on the sleeve of the sweatshirt, that belongs to the blond, he’s adorned in. Steve didn’t protest when various items of clothing vanished from his drawers, and reappeared on Bucky. Bucky’s brow threads together in a cross stitch of confusion. Steve reiterates his question, more softly, though it’s unnecessary. 

“Why?”

The expression of certainty Steve carries suggests he follows a path of logic Bucky doesn’t. Steve’s response catches in his throat, his wide blues matching his, almost winter-less, counter’s. 

“We were apart for so long, I, I thought maybe you could teach me something about you from those years.” He casts a downward glance towards Bucky’s legs, splayed across the couch, socked feet grazing Steve’s thigh. The slight contact directs a pleasant ambiance through Bucky. 

“And since I don’t need combat training…” Steve's tone acquires a grin. 

“Modest.” Bucky nudges Steve’s leg amusingly, his smart remark is reminiscent of a Brooklyn boy and his witty insertions. That spark of the man Steve is vastly familiar with tugs his lips upwards, that man hasn’t entirely dissipated. 

Though, Bucky considers the proposition. The way Steve introduced the idea is immensely thoughtful, loving, fitting with Steve’s character. He gazes upwards at the stoic profile of the blond, youthful in a deceiving way. 

“Only if you want to.” Steve is bashful, tugging at the cotton of his sweats in attempt to busy himself. Steve thinks he should retract his proposal, recovery had been progressing, today a particularly good day. Bucky had slept easily into the late hours of the morning, before busying himself with a stack of literature. 

Within Bucky weighs the idea, his mind wandering to a place he’s tried to banish since returning. He’s exhaled Russian curses when stroking himself. He nips at his lips, mind rampant with the idea of Steve breathily whispering foreign tongue beneath him. A creep of heated shame finds him, and he clasps the cool metal of the tag around his neck for contrast. 

“Romanian?” He composes himself, flesh fingertips following the stamp of his name around his neck. 

“Figured you wouldn’t want to teach me Russian. You didn't have a choice in learning Russian, but you chose to live in Bucharest.” 

Steve is right. The inconspicuous adjustment location Romania offered Bucky had been a first choice after regaining remnants of free will. Nor does Bucky has no inclination to have utter any of his Russian triggers, even in the vicinity of his trusted companion. Bucky relinquishes his grasp around his tag, to run a palm along the red star he brandishes beneath fleece. 

“Forget about it. It’s stupid.” Steve directs his flushed face back towards the flickering program. 

“No, no. I can teach you, if you want.” Bucky’s words are earnest. He didn’t consider himself an instructor of any kind, though if Natasha was standard, Steve would be babbling fluently. 

—

The serum has earned Steve agility and devotion has granted him attentiveness. When the clatter of a blade follows a feeble sob, Steve is beside Bucky in mere blinks. Before Bucky can attempt an assembly of an explanation, a damp cloth traces the seeping wound. Steve translates a cause in the steel blue with ease. His palm cradles Bucky’s face, mouth contorting into a slight frown.

“You’re okay, Bucky. It’s okay.” 

Steve shuns away the bleeding, the onset of Bucky’s episode. 

“Just nicked yourself shaving. It’s okay.” 

Bucky thinks to output an apology for the fingertips painted in blood across Steve’s shirt, but Steve’s knowing expression casts away the need. 

“It already stopped.” Steve’s eyes glimmer with reassurance as he withdraws the towel, carefully casting away the blood stains to the hamper. He extends a warm palm to renounce the tension built within Bucky’s broad shoulders.

Today was a bad day. 

Bucky inaudibly mews for the contact, metallic limb, in a discreet position between them, pawing at tile in need of affection. He pursues expressing gratitude towards Steve, but his voice is static, strained in dissipating hysteria. Steve nods in acknowledgement though, thumb outline the crevice of his collarbone. 

Steve presses the slightest kiss to scarred joint of Bucky's shoulder. It's a meld of lips to disfigured flesh to reassure, to remind Bucky that it's okay to cry. Crying does not indicate Bucky is weak, it's a reminder he's alive. He's human. 

Bucky hones his wandering ideals towards the simple and repeated swipe along his skin, accompanied by the soft swell of lips. He seals his eyes in relaxation. Steve moves to hum approval against Bucky’s dark strands, which stray from his bun. Bucky drifts to a place beyond his suspension in delirium, gathered in Steve’s arms. 

—

Steve had decided to abandon his earlier proposal, he despises the idea of imposing Bucky's past, forcing his best friend to identify parallels to a darker time. 

The scent of coffee draws Steve from the warmth of sleep. His bare feet pad the ceramic of the kitchen, hazed vision swallowing the sight of Bucky. His appearance confirms the disappearance of Steve's favorite pajama pants. They're slung low on Bucky's hips, strained against his full thighs. Outside dawn is still anticipated, the glow of the living room casting refracted shadows. 

"Coffee?" 

Steve mumbles lazily in gratitude, accepting the mug. His fingertips grace Bucky's, offering a transaction of warmth. 

"Better drink up Stevie, can't be teaching you when you're half asleep." 

Steve swallows hastily, charring his tongue. He scours his mind for an adequate response, to reassure Bucky he doesn't have venture towards this path. 

"Are you coming?" Bucky tosses a glance over his shoulder, standing on the threshold of the living room. His expression holds enthusiasm Steve hasn't seen in years, genuine excitement flashing blue. 

—

Their table is strewn with Romanian teachings, by the time the sun has asserted its dominance in the sky. 

Steve was a natural born protector, but a poor translator.

“Bu-nă ziua.” Bucky direct his lips carefully, squaring Steve across the coffee table. His legs are folded neatly beneath him, and his eyes still shimmer with eagerness. 

Despite his careful enunciation, Steve’s mere ‘hello’ is disfigured. Bucky’s patient though, Steve always is with him. Steve allows Bucky time to gather his footing. It’s a process, Steve no longer coddles Bucky, but allowed the expanse of time needed to speak to him as before, alive with wit. Recovery wasn’t achieved overnight, neither was fluency in language. 

“Not buena Stevie, bună.” 

Maybe it shouldn’t astound Bucky that Captain America is not equipped with the skill set for foreign tongue. Bucky marches onwards though, easing Steve along, as he’d done the same. He scrawls a phrase on a stray piece of paper, directing it towards Steve,

“Let’s try something different.” 

Steve’s robust frame slumps in defeat, prompting Bucky to offer a gentle squeeze with his flesh palm. The physical contact and smile of encouragement brings Steve upright again. His free hand scopes the messy penmanship. 

“Numele meu este Steve.” Bucky settles on Steve, who is lost in concentration, Bucky offering an additional reassuring grin. 

Steve’s attempt at declaring his name is no better than his greeting. Bucky clasps his super soldier’s hand firmly, summoning his brightest, best Brooklyn smile. They approach the alphabet together, Bucky penning each letter meticulously into a notebook. Next Bucky provides a few conversational phrases, each of which Steve botches. When Steve’s turned towards the vast window overlooking New York City, forehead creased in frustration, Bucky scribes one last phrase. It’s unconventional in conversation, but he can’t subdue is wistful false scenarios. 

Steve returns to gather the spiral bound book littered with Bucky’s teachings, his eyes settle on the last two words. He scrutinizes them, mouth slightly agape, casting a sideways glance towards the brunet. 

“Thanks Buck, I’m gonna lie down.” Steve announces failure with a scowl, a storm of perplexity and frustration. He departs ruefully, and Bucky’s ear catches the mattress sigh with Steve. The covers rustle into a softer shield than the captain is accustom to. 

Bucky casts his scorn towards the transparency of the table, metallic fingers compressing a wad of Romanian letters. He just wants to make Steve happy. His entirety aches with the concern that he’s the source of his soldier’s disgruntled expression. Steve disbanded The Avengers for him, tore himself apart in an attempt to make Bucky whole. He never deserved Steve Rogers, not in the 1900’s, and not now. His absence of seventy years tore apart Steve, as much as those Russian commands ravaged Bucky. He was sure Steve’s seething dismay was his own doing, and the weight of that wasn’t mere punishment enough. 

—

The mattress gives slightly to accommodate Bucky and the burden he carries. There’s a vague familiarity about drawing away the sheets, and painting fervent circles with his palm on the blond’s back, though broader now. The urgency to reconcile draws him against Steve, murmuring lost apologies Steve opts to disregard. 

“Buck, it’s my fault. I just wanted to share something with you. You’re not the same person as before, neither am I. I’m just trying to learn the new you, but I’m doing a terrible job.” Steve has mastered the scraps of the former Bucky, but he’s attempting desperately to outline the unfamiliar aspect of his best friend. 

“You’re trying.” That was far adequate for Bucky, who has never felt warm compassion in such magnitudes from anyone, but Steve. Bucky wishes he could articulate the devotion and unyielding appreciation his heart casts towards the blond, but he doesn’t need to. There was a sort of code that defied any language between the baby and grey blues. Steve reads Bucky like his favorite book, turning the page affectionately,

“Te iubesc.” Steve poses the final phrase in the notebook questioningly, not unsure of the content, but of the pronunciation. "Did I say it right?"

Bucky’s chest swells, brimming with endearment. He can feel his own laughter, loving and blissful, rattling his bones gleefully. His untainted bemusement encourages Steve’s lungs to expel a forgotten breath. Bucky gravitates towards it, matched with the stutter of Steve’s heart. 

"Perfect. Te iubesc prea.” Bucky’s response is a fluent promise, still swaying with his first fit of laughter since regaining his home. Steve eases into his own laughter, the wave carrying Bucky a shore, into Steve’s arms. 

It was more than a good day. 

The pair decides maybe that’s all the Romanian Steve needs to know.


	3. First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The section detailing reckless behavior in relation to depression was such a throughout depiction of Steve’s behavior, it was only missing a picture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve been going through this bored, sad spell and nothing I do is turning out, so why not write???? anyways i wanted this chapter to be more central on steve, i feel like we’re always talking about bucky’s mental state and never steve’s. 
> 
> this is total gross fluff to appease some feelings I’ve been having after rewatching the movies the other day. 
> 
> lemme know what you think!!!

****Bucky had neglected therapy in favor of remaining conspicuous, instead he took to reading psychology books. He identified with the text more often than not, finding himself written in the margins beside descriptions of PTSD and depression.

 

There were also occasions he found himself pairing Steve with various symptoms, the majority also alluding to PTSD and depression. The section detailing reckless behavior in relation to depression was such a throughout depiction of Steve’s behavior, it was only missing a picture.

 

Steve had always stood up for the little guy, this was in part his defiant personality that gave leeway to an impulse to defy bullies. Bucky had always justified his brash action with such reasoning, but it became apparent there was no little guy. Just Steve, and his persistent audacious demeanor that now attracted Bucky’s concern.

 

—

 

The world would be horrified to find Captain America dead at his own hand. Nothing hurt the Captain, a perfectly resilient icon. Steve Rogers, however, has been hurting all his life.

 

When he was younger, he had dismissed the ache as something he would become acclimated with, pushed it away to serve as second throb to match his heart.  

 

When it demanded attention Steve banished it with smiles and a constant monologue reminding himself that he was fine.

 

When he couldn’t eradicate it, he subdued it.

 

When he could not longer subdue it, he angled that plane in a downward direction and closed his eyes.

 

Almost as though enacting revenge for his attempt annihilate it, it awoke with him, stronger than before, bringing its ally, guilt.

 

So Steve replaces a plane with silent pleas to robots and villains to rewrite his ending for him.

 

Even after regaining Bucky, the ache and guilt that had made a comfortable home in Steve didn’t depart, it was rooted far too deeply.

 

Instead it only expands its living, each time Bucky shields his tears, or disputes the ravages of a nightmare. It reminds him in a deafening voice, _your hand was just inches away, you let him fall. This is your fault._

 

When the voice is your own, it's hard to dispute.

 

And so Steve's dance with death persists, reckless behavior akin to simply jumping in front of a speeding car. Each battle alongside his teammates, he utilizes the shield a little less, punches a little softer, longs for an emancipation from his ache a little harder.

 

**A Month Later**

 

Steve duels with his keys one handedly, his other palm clutching his left side. The suit is in tatters, his bare palm coercing a violent sting from the weeping gash.

 

Just as his key turns, the door is cast towards the wall. Bucky’s expression has already fallen, the flickering TV reciting the Avenger’s latest battle the culprit. Steve stagers over the threshold, evading the hand Bucky offers.

 

“Christ,” Bucky mutters gently as he assesses the extent of the wound, “you should be in the hospital.”

 

“It’ll heal by morning.”  

 

Bucky follows him into his bedroom, which has slowly become _their_ bedroom. Sleep find a less violent opponent in Bucky with Steve weighted against him.

 

The covers are already drawn back, a novel on the bedside table declaring Bucky’s evening activities. Steve collapses weighted onto the white sheets, repainting them scarlet.

 

“Steve.”

 

He offers a languishing grin in response, “I'll let you look. I'm fine, though.”

 

“Stevie.” Bucky’s voice falls an octave, adopting a gentle tone, “Steve, you can't keep doing this.”

 

Steve feigns dumb, denying the behavior he's maintained since he awoke,

 

“Doing what?”

 

It was a robotic creature that challenged the Avengers tonight, wielding a blade, an extension of its forearm. From the footage it’s apparent to Bucky, and his acquaintance with Steve’s ability, that he had granted the edge residence against along his side. The lack of resistance to Steve’s opponent prompted Bucky into a void of terror.

 

Bucky ignores Steve blatant denial, “you’re going to get yourself killed.”

 

A miniscule voice within Steve whispers, _I hope so._

 

Steve looks away to obscure the shattered expression overtaking his face. Steve can’t express his incessant ache aloud, this solidifies it, extends it beyond the confinements of his thoughts.

 

Bucky already knows though, he always has. It’s why he was so incessant to move in after Sarah’s death, so determined to plaster a pleasant facade during the war, because he knew how guilty Steve felt for not reaching him sooner. Bucky always knew.

 

“We have to talk about it, Stevie.” His voice is still soft, but firm.  

 

Steve’s search for an out yields no results, instead he lies back, his blood messed strands a stark contrast to the white linen.

 

“Please just look at me.” Bucky's plea rises in volume, a reflection of his desperation.

 

“Just leave it.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Bucky-”

 

“Steve, what if next time you go too far? What if next time is like the plane?” Bucky voice is quivering, teetering on the edge of anger or tears.

 

When Steve finally counters Bucky his eyes are swimming, his statement so impossibly hushed it’s almost lost.

 

“ _I did it to be with you_.”

 

The statement is deafening, consuming any thoughts fitted in frustration or anger. Steve is just as small as he was the day he put his mother to rest beside his father, he’s holding himself in such a way that emulates this.

 

Bucky _hurts,_ the kind of anguish that settles in his abdomen, thrashes, stirs up a concoction of every fragment of pain that has ever settled within the crevice.

 

Bucky is cold, bitter as lying in the snow as the train thrummed past. His limb doesn’t hurt, maybe it’s shock, maybe it’s the distraction of the fresh shard of agony Bucky is forcing down his throat at the thought of Steve’s days to come. Bucky Barnes was cradling death with his remaining palm, and yet he could only think of Steve and the rash behavior that would ensue. What Steve would do to alleviate the ache was Bucky’s fault, because he couldn’t extend his reach a little further.

 

Bucky still holds this to be true. Steve’s broken confession was confirmation he didn’t need.

 

He settles on the bed, drawing Steve’s pent knees towards Bucky’s own chest instead. He takes the hands Steve is wringing, blood smeared. He intertwines their fingers, sweeping his thumb across knuckles speckled red and bruised. Steve’s watching him with an awed expression that jostles the slivers of grief within Bucky.

 

“I’m here, I’ll never leave.”

 

Bucky had told him that the evening news of Pearl Harbor broke, he spoke it again after the evening at the pub, whiskey on his breath.

 

Steve’s lip trembles before he tumbles into a sob, as though that promise only signifies to him that loss is to come. His whimpers echo seventy years of pent misery, guilt. The stoic front is obliterated as Steve claims Bucky’s past as his negligence.

 

There’s almost a trace of twisted, fucked up humor, Bucky blames himself for Steve’s hurt and Steve blames himself for Bucky’s. Both seem to fail to remember the thousands of smiles and roars of laughter they’ve gifted each other.

 

As Bucky brushes tears away from the refined alabaster canvas, he smiles sadly, around his own.

 

“I’ll stop blaming myself if you do.” Bucky says with a whisper of laughter.

 

Steve doesn’t follow Bucky’s path of thought, evident in his doleful eyes, just clasping Bucky’s hand as tightly as he wishes he had on that train.

 

“I love you.”

 

It’s the first time in seventy some years Steve’s reaffirmed that promise, in English anyways. A tentative inflection dances around his words, Bucky thinks Steve really might be dumb enough not to notice Bucky has been silently directing that phrase at him for months. Steve had rationalized the gestures, notes on his shield, the way Bucky smiled into the crevice of his neck each time they embraced, the affectionate way Bucky’s gaze ignored the tv and watched Steve instead.

 

Bucky offers a similar fixated stare now, noting Steve’s expression abandoning dysphoria in favor of enamored eyes that counter Bucky, murmuring a smile. Bucky splays Steve’s legs around his waist, the response docile. Bucky drags his flesh fingertips delicately along Steve’s side, the skin has rewoven, leaving only slight scars of disrupt. He leans slightly, grazing damp lashes with his bottom lips. Steve exhales an eased chortle, as though he had been waiting apprehensively for Bucky to return the sentiment.

 

Bucky moves to mouth his response to his lips, fervent, in a way only Steve knew of. Bucky lowers still, nosing at his jaw, dusting stray kisses there,

 

“Baby,” Steve hums in recognition of his resurrected nickname, “next time you stand up to a bully- make sure to stand up.”

 

Steve hums a laughs against Bucky’s temple.

 

“That a yes?”

 

“Yeah, jerk.”

  
“Good, because I need you, punk.”


End file.
